A Moment of Silence for the Packing Away of the Flip-flops

(post copyright 2015, Dawn Weber)

It's time to pack up the flip-flops,

It's time to pack up the smile,

Winter is well on its way,

Yet I'm in complete denial.

I get like this in October,

When the forecast turns to shit,

'Cause I don't want to pack up my flip-flops,

No sir. Not one little bit.

But six months of ice and snow,

Don't make for flip-flop weather,

From fall till the end of March,

You want your feet in leather.

It's time to dig out my boots,

I really hate to admit it,

I'll also unpack my pants,

And hope to hell they still fit.

That's one reason I love flip-flops,

They're never too tight or snug,

Even after a week's vacation,

They feel like a gentle foot-hug.

Yeah, flip-flops are like a party,

Right there on my feet,

With a look that yells, "Margaritas!"

And a vibe that shouts, "Let's eat!"

Oh sing a song of the flip-flop,

They're cheap, they're fast, they're easy,

Much like your average prostitute,

Only wearable, flat and disease-free.

All the world loves a flip-flop,

Manufactured by kids in China,

For sale at every Dollar Tree,

From Maine to Texarkana.

Still, it's time to lose the flip-flops,

Oh how I will miss them,

My toes will count the days,

Till they return to freedom.

Yes it's time to pack up the flip-flops,

I can't deny that it's winter,

But things aren't really all bad 'cause,

I am also packing my razor.

I Don't Give a Sh*t About Football: A Football Widow's Lament

I don't give a shit about football,

Yeah, I just went there. I said it,

I've attempted to work up an interest,

But, no. I don't care. Not one bit.

With several boyfriends and a husband,

I faked it again and again,

Don't be pervy - I faked liking football,

When I really gave zero shits. Not one.

I sat with them on many bleachers,

In high school and college and onward,

I tried hard to concentrate on games,

My mind. It did nothing but wander.

Watch my eyes glaze over in boredom,

As the guys at work start up their smack-talk,

Getting all worked up and bothered,

'Bout the Jets or Bengals or the Seahawks.

They go on and on using jargon,

Such as "hook," "muff" "loose ball" and "pooch-kick,"

I laugh, 'cause That is What She Said,

It just all sounds so vaguely erotic.

On Saturday, I'm watching TV,

When in comes the husband to oust me,

He wants to watch Bucks on the big screen,

Oh well. Guess I'll have to go shopping.

The Superbowl is just a Sunday,

I'm hoping to finish the laundry,

Of course, I need to work fast since,

We've been asked to Superbowl parties.

You know, I guess it ain’t all bad,

There's cheering and snacks and libations,

They should just take away that lame "game" stuff,

And make it a big celebration.

'Cause, I don't give a shit about football,

But I'll gladly be at your tailgate,

Drinking several cans of your Bud Light,

And fixing myself a big food plate.